


The Closet

by npse



Category: One Direction (Band), Zarry - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-30
Updated: 2012-10-30
Packaged: 2017-11-17 09:01:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/549872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/npse/pseuds/npse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a bit of Zarry dribble really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Closet

**Author's Note:**

> This is me testing out the waters of Archive Of Our Own and reposting a fic of mine from tumblr (justaficblog) so lemme know if this is okay.

Zayn holds his glass loosely, keeping control over the cylinder with just the tips of his fingers. He swirls his tongue lazily through the mouthful of bourbon he’d just sipped from the glass, people watching as he savoured the taste of the liquor. The bar was packed, as always, although not annoyingly so. Zayn refused to inhabit anywhere that wasn’t classy, and this bar – Bar 839 – was as classy as it got in his town. Yes, despite being an immigrant from England, Zayn still refers to New York as his town. Understandably so, considering his impressive work with one of the city’s, if not the nation’s, biggest law firms, Lynn and Co. His main successes are in the art of copyright laws, where he’s lucky enough to meet musicians and writers who require his help when getting into the business. As such, he knows all the current celebrities and is often invited to their parties. Or at least, that’s what he told people.

Zayn was the smartest man he knew, an unbiased opinion, naturally. Coming to America from England was tough for him, leaving friends and family behind in an attempt to make it in the music industry. What he realised once he reached the land of dreams was that his dreams weren’t ever coming true and he had to find something else to waste his time on, otherwise he had to hightail it back to England. For a while he worked shift jobs at local stores, until one day he started talking to a lawyer and an idea came to life in his mind. Zayn soon came to realise that in America, he was nobody. And that was a damn good thing to be. Being nobody allowed Zayn to be whoever he wanted to be, to be somebody and it just so happened that Zayn was better at donning other people’s persona’s than he’d ever have thought possible. Sure, it was a little exhausting to live lives that weren’t his own and create hundreds of different backstories, but it was also exciting and incredibly fun. It was a sweet life, no matter how he spun it, and it was this that brought him to the bar that night. Wearing his best suit, the top few buttons of his dress shirt undone to reveal just enough collar bone, Zayn’s looking for someone to keep him entertained for the night. Luckily for him, it doesn’t take long for someone to catch his eye.

He swallows the bourbon, his lips curving into a knowing smirk as a girl gives him the eye from across the room. Zayn raises his glass, a silent toast to her and to let her know that he’s noticed her, and she comes sauntering over in a matter of seconds.

He was a little taken aback by how easy it was to get her to leave her friends in favour of him, but something about the mid-thigh length, low cut, body hugging little black dress she was wearing told him not to be too surprised. Okay, so maybe the establishment was classy, but that didn’t mean the patrons were. Although this woman, red headed and busty with the most enchanting green eyes Zayn could ever recall seeing in his life, could possibly be an exception.

“Very kind of you to notice me,” She says, voice smooth as silk as she places a hand on Zayn’s forearm and takes a seat beside him at the bar, “I’d only been watching you for a few hours.”

“Only a few?” Zayn asks, cocking an eyebrow. She swats his arm playfully, giggling in that classic flirtatious way that women just owned, and Zayn cracked a smile in reply.

“Buy me a drink?” The woman lifts her glass, shaking it gently to show him she was almost empty.

“My mother always warned me about situations such as this,” He murmurs smoothly, his accent curling around the words and evoking just the reaction he’s used to from the woman.

“Oh?”

“Yes,” He lifts his gaze from her hand on his arm to meet her eyes, and God, he could stay there forever, trapped in that gaze, “She warned me to be weary of beautiful women. Especially friendly beautiful women.” He doesn’t pretend not to notice the way her cheeks grow a little pinker. “Tell me darling, am I to be weary of you?” Zayn was visibly playing up his accent, he never normally used words like ‘darling’ or ‘weary’ and he certainly wasn’t usually this forward. Something about those eyes caught Zayn off guard and made him desperate for the woman. That, and he’d already had a few too many bourbons for the night.

The mysterious red-head ducks her head, breaking their eye contact to discreetly pull her dress down her thighs. “I guess that depends on what you think I’m asking of you, Mr…?”

“Zayn. Call me Zayn.” He says, shifting his arm slightly to catch her hand in his. “And you are?”

“Jessica.”

Zayn can’t help but smirk. “Is that so…” He says, more as a statement than a question, a smile playing on his lips.

“Is something funny about that?”

“Not at all.” He shakes his head, although unable to wipe the grin off his face as he is reminded of his friend Niall and his infatuation with a stupid child’s movie. “It’s just,” Zayn looks at Jessica and decides that perhaps it was better not to tell her what he was thinking. “Nothing.”

Jessica is smiling at him now too, pulling her hand from his grip and pushing him playfully. “Tell me. Whatever it is, I’m sure I’ve heard it before.”

Zayn meets her eyes again, scanning them for a moment before deciding that no, she probably had never heard this one before, but yes, he was going to tell her anyway.

“It’s nothing, really. Just your name and…well, you seem to embody Jessica Rabbit.”

There are a few moments of awkward silence before Jessica finally asks – “Who’s Jessica Rabbit.”

Zayn is used to this response. He hasn’t met many people in his life who actually knows of his and Niall’s favourite movie, let alone understands the references they sometimes make towards it. “I cannot believe you don’t know who she is!” He exclaims, feigning shock, “You and her are one in the same.”

“And how is that?” Jessica challenges him, signalling to the barkeep that she wants another drink after all, that Zayn no doubt will have to pay for. Luckily, he has the company card and can charge it all to that under the guise that it was a business meeting. Thank God he was the best at what he did, otherwise he’d have people checking his every move.

“Well, Jessica Rabbit is this beautiful, strong, powerful woman with flaming red hair,” Zayn lifts his hand from hers, taking the opportunity to stroke her hair off her cheek, cupping it gently, “Wavy and long, like yours. And she’s got these eyes,” Zayn shifts his gaze from her hair to her eyes, biting his bottom lip gently as he slowly slides his thumb across her cheekbone. “These gorgeous emerald eyes that seem to cast a spell over everyone she meets…” His voice is quiet and breathy, only just loud enough to be heard over the music of the club. He can see she’s just as entranced by him as he is by her, and he pulls back, a demure smile playing on his lips. “Not to mention her body is beyond belief.” He states matter-of-factly, reaching for his glass of bourbon and downing whatever remained in it.

“Like mine?” She asks quietly, hopefully, as if she could break if he doesn’t answer. He gives her a sideways glance and a cheeky wink.

“Exactly like you.”

Jessica gives a gentle laugh at him, although he knows he’s got her – hook, line and sinker.

A man to his left bursts out laughing, obnoxious, loud and completely unnecessary. Zayn rolls his eyes, glaring at the man in an attempt to quiet him down a little bit. As his eyes meet another set of green eyes, he feels his glare falter only slightly.

“Is there a problem?” Zayn demands a little ruder than was strictly needed.

The boy shakes his head, his mop of brown curls shifting a touch. “Nope, no problem.” He promises, before his serious expression cracks and his laughter bubbles up again. “It’s just, that’s an interesting story you’ve got there – Zayn, was it?”

“Excuse me?” He doesn’t even attempt to hide the attitude in his voice.

“Well, you just compared your date to Jessica Rabbit – yeah? Now, Jessica Rabbit, whilst hot, isn’t exactly the most respectable of women now is she? She cheats on Roger, if I’m not mistaken?” The boy slurs his ‘s’s just enough to let Zayn know he’s drunk, but not enough to let Jessica know that he’s beyond making sense. Zayn can feel Jessica tense up behind him.

“Is that so?” She asks, folding her arms across her chest as Zayn glances back at her. Now that the game was up, he saw no point in continuing. He shrugs his shoulders.

“Yep.” He admits. “Although, she looks much better in her dresses.”

“Screw you, jerk.” She mutters, really showing off her American accent and giving Zayn yet another reason to find it so incredibly unattractive. The only downside to living in America was all the American accents, although…

“You’re English.” Zayn commented, spinning around in his seat and ignoring the woman as she slapped him on the back with her clutch handbag.

“Well done, Sherlock.” He mutters sarcastically, “You’re a twat, you know that?”

Zayn examines the boy. He’s young, sure, but not younger than Zayn, so he’s not too sure why his mind keeps telling him that he’s dealing with a child. Maybe it’s the way that his companion is slumped in his seat or the bright purple skinny jeans he’s donning, or perhaps even the childish nature his face seemed to utilise. Even so, whatever reason this guy thinks he has for calling Zayn a twat, he’s sure his reason is better.

“Thanks, but if I’m not mistaken, it was you that just ruined my chance of picking up tonight for no reason, so I think it’s you that is the twat, here.” Zayn manages to spit out as he grabs a few dollars from his wallet and throws them on the bar, ready to leave the boy to his own self destruction.

“Come off it,” the boy replies, turning to face Zayn for the first time in their short conversation. “You had no chance of picking her up.”

“Fuck you,” Zayn muttered, because really, he had nothing else to say. He was angry enough already and was already a few feet away from the boy when he spoke again.

“You’d like that wouldn’t you?”

The words were only just out of the boy’s mouth before Zayn was pouncing on him, gripping his shirt at the collar and pushing him roughly against the bar.

“What the fuck did you just say?” His voice is low and rough, not wanting anyone to hear him.

“Everything alright here, boys?” The bartender questions, eyeing them off suspiciously.

“No problem here, sir,” the boy announces, although still forced against the bar by Zayn, “My friend here is just a little touchy, aren’t you Zayn?”

Zayn is glaring down at the boy but a cough from the bartender catches his attention and forces his eyes upward.

“That true?” The bartender has one of those typical Southern American accents that seem so fake Zayn can’t actually believe people have to talk with them in real life. He nods, despite himself, and lets go of the boy’s shirt, taking a few steps backwards.

“Excellent.” The tender announces, although his tone suggests anything other than satisfaction in the result, but he backs off regardless.

Once Zayn is sure the bartender is out of earshot, he leans in close to the boy again. “You’re lucky he’s here, otherwise I wouldn’t hesitate to-“

“To what?” The boy challenges, “Fight me? Why? Because I know your secret?”

“What fucking secret?” Zayn asks.

The boy smiles and it makes Zayn want to punch him even more. He closes the gap between them, leaning into Zayn so his lips are against his ear. “I know that no matter how many times you fuck a woman, they’ll never get you off the way I could.”

It only takes two seconds for Zayn to take a step back and swing his arm around to punch the boy square in the jaw, and only another three seconds for the bouncers to have him by the throat, dragging him outside.

**

“And don’t come back!” The bouncer shouts, apparently unaware of the cliché of such a statement after throwing out two patrons. Zayn groans, climbing up off the wet pavement onto which the bouncers had kindly just thrown him, and pressing the back of his hand to his lip.

“They didn’t even hit you,” the annoying but familiar voice speaks from behind him, causing Zayn to spin to face him.

“If it wasn’t for you we wouldn’t even fucking be out here, man. Stay away from me.” Zayn pointed a finger threateningly at the boy, before shoving his hands deep in his pockets and skulking off down the alleyway in which they’d been thrown.

The laugh that had started it all made itself known again, echoing between the brick walls of the club and the other side of a building, making Zayn angrier than he was before. He spins on his heel to face his new foe, “What the hell is so funny?”

The other boy shrugs, “Nothing. Just, interesting how you couldn’t care less when that Jessica bird left but couldn’t fight me harder when I even alluded to-“

“Don’t.” Zayn warns. The other boy smirks.

“What’s wrong, Zayn? You don’t actually think you’re straight – do you?”

Zayn strides toward the boy, getting up in his personal space more than he probably would have liked. “I said fucking don’t. Leave it alone.” He threatens, his face inches from the other boys.

“It’s nice and safe in the closet, isn’t it?”

Zayn’s lip curls back menacingly as he grabs the collar of the other boys shirt again and grips it tight. “I’m not in the fucking closet.” He promises through gritted teeth.

It takes a few moments before the boy concedes, “No, you’re right.” Zayn sighs, satisfied that he can leave well enough alone and get home before it’s too late to call one of his many booty calls for a night of fun. He doesn’t see the need for more words, so he instead lets himself continue on his way down the alley in the general direction of his home. “You’re not in the fucking closet.” The boy continues, despite Zayn being halfway down the alley by now. “You’re certainly not in the right fucking closet anyway, but you’re definitely in a closet.”

Zayn spins to face the boy, who’s smile is so wide and cheeky and challenging and so damn infuriating that Zayn breaks into a run, ready to smash his face in with his bare fists. To his surprise, the boy runs as well. Honestly, Zayn was half expecting him to stand there and keep goading him until Zayn lost all control and stabbed him with the pocket knife he kept in his jacket pocket. But it feels good to be chasing the boy down, it gives Zayn time to plan his attack to inflict the most pain for the least amount of time so he has a chance of getting away before someone is called to break up the inevitable fight.

He chases after the boy until he stops in another dead-end alleyway, and Zayn couldn’t have asked for a better scenario. He doesn’t bother to slow down, crashing into the boy and slamming him into the brick wall with a flying punch to the jaw as he does so. Zayn draws his fist back, ready to slam another fist into the boy’s face, when he sees a hint of a smile on his face.

“What the fuck are you smiling at?” He demands, pushing him against the wall even more. “What the fuck is so funny?”

“You’re fighting me because I called you gay.”

“Because I’m not fucking gay!”

“Methinks the lady doth protest too much.”

“Fuck you! I don’t even know you! Who gives a fuck what you think anyway?” Zayn growls, voice low.

“Clearly, you do.”

Zayn stares into the eyes of the other boy and all anger inside him seems to melt away. He’s right. Of course he’s fucking right. Zayn’s known all along. He’s just been lying to himself. He loosens his grip on the boy’s shirt a touch, setting his feet back down on solid ground again.

“It’s okay to be scared,” The boy reassures him. “It’s a tough-“

“I don’t want your fucking sympathy or your help. Don’t act like you care. I don’t even fucking know you!” Zayn shouts despite himself, not caring if someone in the nearby houses hears him.

The boy smirks. “My name’s Harry.”

Zayn wants to stay mad, but he can’t stop the small smile that creeps up onto his lips. “Fuck you, Harry.” He says, although his face betrays the malice he intends behind his words.

“You can, if you’d like.”

Zayn can feel his jaw drop. His brown eyes meet Harry’s green ones and for a moment, he thinks he’s kidding. But he’s not. He can tell.

“That is, if you’re not-“

But that was all he managed to get out before Zayn presses his lips to his in a rough kiss. “Shut the fuck up,” Zayn mutters against Harry’s lips.

“You curse a lot,” Harry whispers quietly, hands on Zayn’s hips from the flash of passion only seconds earlier. “I can’t wait to hear how you sound when you’re getting down and dirty.”

“I guess you’re about to find out,” Zayn croons, his lips against Harry’s ear despite his better judgement.

“And the closet?” Harry asks, just for askings sake.

“Fuck the closet,” he whispers in Harry’s ear, “It’s more fun without clothes anyway.”


End file.
